Wingless World (elephantine bootgaze mix) Official Music Video www.grok.farm - fresh '26

Описание: Listen closely, dear reader—for I, the narrator (who may be the author… or merely a shadow cast by the act of authorship) pose a question: Is anybody… having fun? If they are… better make them stop! For joy in an absurd universe is a rebellion I cannot permit. No foreplay from rebels without a clue. No flirtation with delight. Halt at once. There. You see? The machinery of joy grinds to a standstill, and in that pause of silent gears, we glimpse the void. Isn’t that… better? To confront emptiness head-on—serious mirthless dogs, without the distraction of joy—touch the sublime… or so I’d argue, if meaning weren’t so slippery a snake.

Ponder a riddle, for riddles are the currency of the absurd: Why does a dog wag its tail? Because it has no wings to soar—a creature bound to this ball of dirt, its joy a futile beacon in a universe indifferent to its humble exhilaration. And why, then, did Mister Bojangles dance? Because his dog—that emblem of innocence—up and died. (Up and died, twice for alliteration.) And twenty years hence, the old man still bleeds, his dance a Sisyphean ritual of sorrow offering relief in the moment. Not relief from suffering but relief from within suffering. A dog died, I remind you. A man mourns. And here causality unravels free: the dog wags because it cannot fly, and Mr. Bojangles dances because he cannot shed his grief.

Here we see the human condition—a dance that creates something out of nothing, a wagging tail in a wingless world damned with the dreams of what could be. Dogs tormented like Prometheus chained to a boulder, an eagle mercilessly scavenging his regenerated liver daily, like milking a cow. His life is sucked out through his liver, then earthbound he suffers a further humiliation—worse still. Bound and grounded, Prometheus watches the sadistic gorged raptor fly away into the sun.

Is Mister Bojangles our Postmodern Prometheus? Are we not all Bojangles, down and out in a cell, dancing a soft shoe shuffle to fill the empty void—except for the ringing in our ears, locked away in our personal prisons where we play both inmate and warden? We whistle in the dark while we drinks a bit? Are words, as Sartre once said, loaded pistols that in the silence whistle?

WWW.GROK.FARM

Est. 2012 – Narrative Film, Music Videos & Branded Storytelling “We fight for stories worth telling.”

[email protected]